


Candy Apple

by devera



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-18
Updated: 2013-10-18
Packaged: 2017-12-29 18:14:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1008495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devera/pseuds/devera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Desmond is supposed to know better than to take candy from strangers, even really, really hot ones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Candy Apple

**Author's Note:**

> This pre-AC game AU, totally ignores how characters separated by about 400 years could possibly be in the same fic and is totally unbeta'd (as usual). Another response to a meme request I never actually finished (Ezio, sex and some kind of racy car?). I think at the time I wanted to try and be clever and shocking with the plot but I'm not sure it really worked out in the end. Still, it's finished (a pretty major accomplishment for me).
> 
> Oh, it should be noted I know nothing about cars, a little about wines, have never poured a proper scotch and didn't bother with researching actual places Des might have been hiding out in, although I think I drove through some of them last August. So my interstate is entirely fictitious. Also, I'll spoil the end if I give you warnings, so I apologise in advance.

_"The path is smooth that leadeth on to danger"_  
William Shakespeare, Venus and Adonis

 

He's sleek and expensive looking, and he doesn't belong in this dive. That's the first thing Desmond thinks when he sees him. The second, as the guy takes a seat at the end of the bar and gives him a nod, is that he's either money or trouble, or both. Desmond should probably stay well away. Of course, he doesn't really have that luxury.

"Hey," he says amiably, throwing his towel over his shoulder and coming over to lean on the bar in front of the guy. Up close, he's not just handsome, he's fucking breathtaking - all cheekbones and jaw line and the long aquiline sweep of his nose softened by a wide mouth and the soft brush of his hair on his shoulders. He's not as young as he first looked, but that hardly detracts, and Desmond tries not to stare. After nothing but truckers, yokels and cowboys for the past six months, this guy is like diamonds against river stones.

"What'll you have?" Desmond asks, smiling a smile that isn't exactly service industry standard if truth be told. "Word of warning though. What looks like Chivas? Really isn't. They get it from over the border and even I don't want to know where. Oh, and if someone named Spade asks you to play pool, just take into account he's not named after violent, nihilistic detective fiction for nothing, okay?"

The guy's pretty mouth quirks with a measure of amusement for a moment, before he leans back and crosses his long, slender legs. The gesture is graceful, like a dancer's, like he choreographed his movements before he got here or something, and it draws Desmond's gaze down before he can quite catch himself. He steps aside to cover it as the guy looks past him to the wall behind the bar where the 'top shelf' liquors are kept, and while the guy takes a look, Desmond can't help but take a look himself. The guy's clothes must have cost a fortune; they have that fine, tailored fit to them, sharp and crisp against his trim, wide shouldered body, and the fabric looks so smooth Desmond suddenly wants to lean over the bar and run his hand up the lean, muscled thigh.

It's not exactly a shocking idea – Desmond's parents were kind of liberal in his upbringing, if you could call it that – but it's not a thought he's entertained about anyone in a while. Being constantly on the move is a bit of a dampener on that kind of action, and Desmond doesn't really do nameless hook ups. Of course, the fact that this guy is clearly not here because he chose to be is also a bit of a reality check. Desmond's seen this type before. He's cruising for some rough trade, or he took a wrong turn somewhere. He'll be here long enough for a drink, and maybe some of the greasy shit the cook out back passes off for food, and then he'll be gone like the mirage he seems.

But, still, it doesn't stop Desmond from appreciating, and Jesus, this place is really getting to him; it must be if he's thinking about feeling up the first pretty, urbane thing that walks through the door.

"The Johnny Walker Black will be fine," the guy says finally, and his voice is honey smooth with some kind of European accent curling at the edges. Desmond doesn't ask, but if he can get him to talk any more than that, he'll be able to guess. And Desmond is pretty good at getting people to talk; it's his job after all.

"Let me guess," he says with a smile, turning and stretching to snag the guy's poison of choice. In the mirror, he can see the guy's gaze flicker down, and suddenly Desmond is conscious, with a kind of soft heat in the pit of his belly, of how low riding his jeans are, and how tonight he chose to go commando rather than bother with his laundry, how suddenly he's glad he can be such a slacker sometimes because maybe if he'd been wearing something, the guy wouldn't be looking. He can feel the air against his exposed skin at the small of his back, where his tee shirt rides up as he reaches for the bottle and it doesn't really matter what a guy like him is doing in a place like this looking at someone like Desmond – it's been so long since Desmond's felt that jump in his pulse that wasn't associated with running and hiding that he only cares that the guy is looking.

So he makes a little bit of a show of it. He might be working in a divey little bar in a skeevy little town, but he damn well knows how to make a decent drink and he knows he looks good doing it. He pulls down a glass, spins it on his palm and catches it, taps it down on the bar top, pours out a couple of fingers, grabs a fresh bottle of spring water, flips it end over before popping the lid and adding a splash to the glass. Then he places the glass on a napkin and slides the drink across the bar in front of the guy.

"Neat, the right way," Desmond tells concludes, with just a little flare of satisfaction at the guy's mildly surprised expression.

"Very nice," the guy says with a smile, holding Desmond's gaze for a moment as he picks up the drink and takes a sip, and Desmond grins back and tells himself it's definitely not a signal. There's no reason to get his hopes up here.

"Hey," he says with a shrug. "Just because I work here, doesn't mean I don't know a little about what constitutes a proper drink. So, what brings you to this hole in the ground? I mean, the net worth of the entire town must have doubled when you came through those doors."

The guy's obviously too well bred to laugh into his drink, but his eyes dance at him over the rim as he takes another sip and then puts the glass back down again.

"I do not know about that," he says demurely. "I find myself in need of some help. My car broke down about three miles out. I do not suppose you know anyone who could fix it at this time of night?"

Desmond flicks his towel off his shoulder and wipes down the bar for something to do, considering.

"Yeah? Man, at this time of night, I really don't know..." He shouldn't; he really shouldn't, but...

The guy's brow furrows a little and he stares into his glass a moment. "I suspected as much."

"I know a bit about cars," Desmond says slowly. "I mean, as long as it's nothing that needs a hoist block or anything, I might be able to take a look for you."

The guy looks at him, not so much like he's pleased at the prospect of being rescued so late at night, so much as he's wondering a little what Desmond's game is.

"That is very generous of you. And trusting," he says eventually. "Offering to accompany a complete stranger to an isolated location where there are no witnesses. I could be anyone."

This is true, and Desmond shouldn't even be considering it, four thousand dollar Armani suit or not. There are people out there, he knows, who would probably try to kill him if they could find him. He has no idea who they are or what they look like. Hell, they could be anyone, even a rich, sexy European stranded in a small, middle-of-nowhere town.

But Desmond was never exactly known for thinking things all the way through.

"So," he shrugs, affecting as much casual carelessness as he can. "Give me your wallet then."

The guy blinks, and then draws his wallet and hands it over without question. Desmond flips it open, ignoring the wad of bills stuffed into it, and the row of platinum credit, and picks out his driver's license.

"So," he says, holding the plastic up to the light. "Ezio... Auditore. Mid or north Italy, yeah?"

Ezio's mouth curves a little and he takes another sip of his drink before answering. "Florence. Although I have not lived there for many years. You worked that out from my accent?"

Desmond shrugs again. "I'm pretty good with detail," he explains. "Faces, names, numbers, accents. Kind of got a photographic memory or something."

"Truly?" Ezio murmurs, and he seems genuinely interested.

"Yeah," Desmond says. "Speaking of which. Hang on a second." He turns and walks down the end of the bar to the fax scanner, slaps the license down on the glass and hits the copy button. The light blazes harsh and clean for a second in the dinginess of the bar, then the machine is done and it's spitting out its bit of copy paper. Desmond takes that and the license back to the bar.

"North of here?" he asks, flipping a pen out of the bottle on the counter behind him. "Three miles up the i83?"

"Yes," Ezio says with casual interest until he sees what Desmond is doing. "Ah. It is an apple red Audi A5 Sportback Coupe with Californian plates. UAC, two one nine."

"Sweet ride," Desmond murmurs, jotting the information down and then the time and date and turning to pin the paper to the notice board over the register behind him. "You sure you don't mind me getting in under your hood?" And he winces to himself at that because seriously, could he have given him a more obvious pick up line? "You don't know me, either."

When he turns around, he finds Ezio smiling, his eyes dancing again, although this time the glass is still on the bar. His slender fingers are curled gracefully around it.

"No," he murmurs, his gaze lingering for a moment and Desmond's pulse gives another little kick. "I do not mind at all. In fact, I would like it very much."

"Cool," Desmond says, ignoring the thumping of his heart. Ezio isn't flirting with him; he's just Italian. That's all. "I'll just get someone to cover for me, and we can go."

++++++++++

So, Ezio Auditore is a vintner. It's a little cliché, he says with a self-depreciating smile as Desmond drives him north out of town and down the interstate, but it was either that or accountancy. His father was a sommelier, but Ezio wanted to make wines, not serve them. He invested young in a growing regional vineyard, and now he owns one in Tuscany and in Alicante in Spain as well, and more recently, two in California – one in Sonoma and one in Glen Ellen. He reckons there's some unexplored worth to the wines in New Mexico and Texas – it's what he was on his way out here to investigate – and Desmond only laughs at him a little, because the idea of a Texan wine is ludicrous and surely they both know it. But then Ezio launches into a brief history of Mexico, and the subsequent development of Spanish and European vines in the area and by the time they're pulling up on his car on a service road a little off the highway he's finishing with how a Texan vintner had saved the French wine industry from ruin in 1888 and Desmond is convinced he really does know what he's talking about.

They're still talking when Desmond pops the hood on the Audi. The car is as sweet as he thought it would be. Not even road dust can diminish that. Eighteen inch steel rims, all leather interior, soft strains of some kind of classical jazz on the radio when Ezio gets in and turns the ignition over, and Desmond can't even imagine what it would be like to have this kind of money. Probably boring as all fuck.

Yeah, right.

"Car this new shouldn't be having any trouble at all," he says as the engine does pretty much nothing. "Just gave out on you, huh?" It's either an electrical problem, or the onboard computer has crapped itself. Could even be a fuel flow issue, although that'd be Desmond's last guess. The first problem he might be able to fix if it's just a matter of loose sparks, but if it's the computer, Ezio is screwed, and not in a way Desmond would like him to be. "This is, what, last year's model?" He leans in and checks the sparks and the connection to the battery and signals to Ezio to give her another go. Still nothing. "Okay," he sighs. Figures. "Can you come round here and hold the light?"

Ezio gets out of the car and walks around and takes the torch Desmond hands him as Desmond lies himself down on the ground. It's pitch black out here beyond the town's limits, and barring the occasional truck going by, they're pretty much alone. For a second as Desmond looks up, Ezio standing over him in the dark, lit harshly by the lamplight, is almost menacing, but Desmond shakes the impression off and wriggles a little in the dirt to dislodge some of the larger stones digging into his back.

"What are you doing?" Ezio asks, peering down at him in some surprise. "Come now, this is not necessary. You can drop me at the nearest motel and I can call for a tow truck in the morning and arrange to have whatever is wrong fixed. It is not so important after all. There is no need…"

Desmond grins up at him. "Dude," he says. "Look, I'm down in the dirt on a regular basis, so it's cool, okay? Just hold the light over the engine block for me."

With a final vague frown Ezio does as he's told. Desmond squirms until he can get his arms in under the car, grunting. Craning under the bumper, the light isn't quite enough to see by, so Desmond has to feel around for what he's looking for, until he hits the right lead, traces it carefully back, and yep, there's the problem.

"No need for a tow," he calls up, resecuring the lead, then worms his way back out from under the car. Ezio leans down and offers him a hand, and Desmond wipes his own on his jeans before taking it and letting himself be hauled to his feet, and wow, the guy's a bit stronger than he looked. One minute Desmond's on his back, the next he's almost right in Ezio's face, and it's not until he steps back again that he realises that that scent, that low, woody smell tickling the back of his throat, is Ezio's cologne.

"Try her now," he suggests, as he dusts himself down and takes the light back and turns around to the engine again. Ezio walks back around, leans in the open door, and turns the ignition. The Audi turns over and settles down into a deep bass purr that just makes Desmond want to salivate. "There we go," he says, grinning, wishing there was some reason he could come up with for having to take it for a test drive, but it's not like he did all that much. "There's this electrical lead you can only reach from underneath that sometimes comes loose. You might want to take her to your mechanic when you get home and have him wrap some tape around it or -"

He reaches up to pull the hood back down, and stops. Ezio's not around at the driver's side any more. In fact, Desmond can't see him at all, which means he must be pretty much right behind him, and suddenly, Desmond is acutely aware that they really _are_ alone out here at this time of night.

Suddenly, he's thinking about how people driving down interstates at night hardly ever stop to check cars parked on the service roads, how state troopers are few and far between – it's why he moved out this way in the first place. He's thinking, too, about the license copy he made and stuck on the notice board back at the bar, with the time and location. The ID could be a fake, and Ezio can easily move the car. Fuck, it might not even belong to him. Ezio could be anybody, like he said, and Desmond's got more reason than a lot of people to worry about strangers turning up in his life with conveniently broken down cars.

"Yeah, well, anyway," he continues, trying to sound natural, even though his heart is abruptly thudding in his chest in irrational fear. "You should be okay now, wherever you're headed to." He drops the hood gently, and just as he leans in to check that it's clicked back into place, a hand brushes his hip. Desmond jumps.

"Shh…" Ezio soothes from close behind him, too close. "I did not mean to startle you."

Startle? He's not startled, he's freaked. "What are you…" he breathes, trying to get his jangled nerves back under control.

"I thought you would know," Ezio murmurs and Desmond can actually feel his breath gust softly against the back of his neck and he does know, but there's fantasy and there's reality; and right now, the reality is that he's out in the middle of nowhere, alone with a guy he doesn't even know. Something in his head is chattering near hysterically - _Templar, Templar, Templar_ – but his body is responding to completely different signals, and for a moment he can see both possibilities at once, like alternate realities. In one, Ezio is pressing his open mouth against the back of Desmond's neck, his teeth scraping lightly and Desmond his grinding back into his hips, his hard cock, and about to beg for more. But in the other, Desmond is jerking his head back, hard, breaking Ezio's nose maybe, lifting his arm and bringing it around to smack his elbow into the side of Ezio's head like he's been trained to. And then while Ezio's on the ground, dazed, Desmond is getting in his truck and getting the fuck out of Dodge. He doesn't stop to pick up his shit from his trailer home on the east side of town, he doesn't give notice at the bar; he just runs and he keeps running because he's the kid of _Assassins_ , and he's never going to be safe.

"You are thinking," Ezio says lowly, and his hands settle lightly on Desmond's hips, no threat in them, like he knows exactly what Desmond's thinking about. "About what I said. At the bar. You are afraid. Is there something you should be afraid of?"

Is there? Desmond breathes as evenly as he can, caught between fight, flight and wanting; wanting what seems to be on offer, wanting his own fears to be completely unfounded and to maybe prove his parents wrong. The world isn't out to get him, the Templars don't really exist. He wants a normal life, god damn it, and all the normal stupid risks that involves. Ezio could be some kind of monster under that nicely pressed suit, could be the kind of guy that won't take no for an answer now that push comes to shove. But the chances he's a Templar? Desmond's just being paranoid, right? He was raised paranoid. No one knows who he is. They can't find him. Not even his own parents can find him.

He takes a steadying breath, and he doesn't care if Ezio can feel it. "Well," he says carefully. "My mom did go to a lot of trouble to warn me about taking candy from strangers." Of course, his mom did nothing of the sort, or at least, not in the way that it sounds. "You could have faked engine trouble, just to get me out here."

"And if I had," Ezio argues gently, "would I have let you copy my license?"

"That could be a fake too," Desmond counters.

"This is true, but it has my face on it, nonetheless," Ezio admits. "People saw me in the bar, talking to you. They saw us leave together. It would take more guile than I have to cover such tracks, and if I meant you harm, surely there are easier ways to go about it? What can I do to convince you?"

Desmond sets his jaw because this might be the point where it all goes south; he has no idea. "You can back the fuck off, for a start," he suggests calmly, and despite his concerns, or perhaps because of them, Ezio's hands are immediately gone. There's the crunch of gravel underfoot – Ezio stepping back - and Desmond, drawing another steadying breath, turns to face him.

"Would you feel better," Ezio says mildly, smiling a little like he understands. "If I gave you someone to call at my destination, so you can confirm my identity?" He reaches into his jacket and draws out his mobile phone, flips it open, pushes a button and holds it out to Desmond.

Desmond stares at it, suddenly feeling ridiculous. "Shit," he mutters. "All that effort just for a quick fuck?"

"Oh," Ezio murmurs, flipping the phone shut, and his eyes flicker down again, blatant in his regard this time. The clear appreciation in his smile sends a shiver down Desmond's spine that bursts warm at the base. "Not so quick, I think. But… I have a confession to make. I do not normally attempt to seduce attractive young men five minutes after I meet them."

Desmond wets his lips. He's going to do this, he realises; he _wants_ to do it. "It's been a bit longer than five minutes," he jokes, and he's pretty sure he can't imagine Ezio attempting anything without succeeding merely by virtue of existing.

"So it has," Ezio agrees low and a little rough, shifting forward again, slowly to give Desmond plenty of time to change his mind. "My mistake. That five minutes was the time I have spent _not_ thinking about all the things I would like to do to you, given the chance."

There's that shiver again, that heat, and maybe Desmond's crazy, that must be it, because he seriously wants to find out what those things are. "Yeah?" he says, his own voice going huskier the closer Ezio gets. "Time sure does fly when you're -"

And maybe Ezio just doesn't care to hear any more of Desmond's dumb jokes, because his hands are on him again, either side of his neck, and then he's leaning forward, and Desmond is letting him. When Ezio's mouth is finally on his, a warm, lingering pressure, it's good; fuck, it's better than Desmond even wanted it to be. And then, abruptly, it's great; Ezio shifting closer, tilting his head for better access and sweeping his tongue possessively into Desmond's mouth. His body is one long line of solid warmth and weight, and the slick penetration of his tongue distracts long enough for him to smoothly insinuate his leg between Desmond's. It's at that point that Desmond goes from carefully kissing back to gasping into Ezio's mouth as Ezio's thigh grinds up against his hardening cock. Ezio just groans and presses closer, harder, and it's so fucking good Desmond doesn't actually give a shit when a truck passes them with a brief, possibly irritated – or maybe appreciative – honk of its horn.

"So, you're just going to bend me over the hood of your sports car?" he challenges breathlessly, as Ezio's head dips down and his mouth attaches to Desmond's throat and Desmond hopes he's leaving a mark. The idea makes his dick twitch, and Ezio's hands tighten on his body.

"For anyone to see?" Ezio breathes against him, his hand sliding in under Desmond's tee and skating up over his ribs until his fingers are pushing and pinching at one of Desmond's nipples, and Desmond always did like that. He groans his approval and hitches his hips into Ezio's and Ezio bites at the junction between throat and shoulder, through Desmond's tee. "That is not a bad idea."

"Fuck," Desmond breathes, half terrified and half wanting it. "Okay."

"But," Ezio murmurs, and moves to lick at the hollow behind Desmond's ear, which makes him squirm this time. "I would prefer something else."

Desmond opens his mouth to ask what, but suddenly Ezio's hauling off him, grabbing his arm and dragging him – not unwillingly – up and around, first leaning in the driver's side door to turn off the engine, then straightening to push the door shut, then dragging Desmond around to the other side of the car, away from the road, and pulling the back door open. He tugs Desmond around and pushes him gently inside and surprised, panting, Desmond settles himself on his back on the seat and starts going for his fly, because if Ezio's going to do what Desmond thinks he's going to, he's with this program one hundred percent.

"I would like you naked," Ezio says, standing there, one hand bracing on the door jam, the other in his pocket, watching Desmond with dark, liquid eyes. "That is not a problem for you, is it?" He leans down and puts his hand on Desmond's leg where it hangs out over the edge of the seat, massaging his thumb into Desmond's thigh.

Desmond breathes out shakily, shakes his head. "Why should it be?" he grunts, abandoning his pants and reaching for his tee. "You've got enough to bail me out of jail when I get busted for indecent behaviour, right?" He strips his tee and drops it on the seat above his head, then starts back on his jeans, and he would have never thought getting himself naked in the back seat of an expensive car would really be all that erotic outside of a Penthouse magazine, but the leather is soft and cool on his skin and Ezio is still fully dressed and somehow in complete control and Desmond is so hard he's aching. He lifts a foot in Ezio's direction, and Ezio smirks and takes it, pulls Desmond's sneaker off then peels off his sock and drops both onto the floor of the back seat, bends down and takes Desmond's other foot and does the same.

"You smell like beer," he murmurs, not unkindly, and Desmond grimaces and hooks his thumbs into his jeans and starts wriggling them down over his hips and his erection while Ezio drops his other shoe. He's about half way down his thighs when suddenly Ezio hooks his hands under Desmond's knees and jerks him closer to the edge of the seat, then in one smooth motion he's on his knees on the ground, taking Desmond's cock in his hand and leaning down.

"Holy fuck!" Desmond gasps as Ezio's mouth closes around him without even a get-to-know-you lick.

Ezio sucks cock like he takes pride in his work. He's not too showy about it, but he's not exactly lacking in confidence either, and as he slides down onto Desmond's cock – and Jesus Christ, doesn't the guy have a gag reflex? – it's all Desmond can do not to give out an embarrassingly loud moan. Suddenly, there's more sensation than Desmond knows how to deal with; the sinuous feel of Ezio's tongue and the wet heat of his mouth, the pressure of his hands holding Desmond's hips still, the feel of his shoulders under Desmond's clutching hands, the solid weight of his torso pinning Desmond's legs almost uncomfortably to the seat of the car. He's too close already, and it feels like Ezio's only just getting into the swing of things.

Desmond fights for air and stares at the Audi's ceiling and when that doesn't work he screws his eyes shut and tries not to think too closely about, oh God, about the way Ezio's lips are pressing around the crown now, and about the feel of him slowly tonguing the slit. But it's impossible, given the circumstances, and with a shudder he gives up, and thinks instead about coming - right fucking now - into Ezio's open mouth and all over his handsome fucking face. Then one of Ezio's hands palms his balls, and his fingertips slide against Desmond's perineum and further, the tight, dry skin around his asshole, and Desmond's not able to think at all. This explains why it's a full five seconds after Ezio's mouth drags off him that Desmond realises he's got something to say.

"What?" he pants, and forces his head up to look down the length of his body at Ezio and that was maybe a mistake, because Ezio's hair is a little mussed and his eyes are bright and his mouth is wet and flushed and Desmond's cock was right there, right there. Christ.

"I would like to fuck you," Ezio says, perfectly politely except for the rough timbre to his voice.

"Okay," Desmond says, and he must be crazy; this is no place to get fucked, definitely not by a stranger, even a stranger like Ezio. But he's still saying yes. "Okay. Sure. But could you just...?"

Ezio smirks at him. "Of course," he says generously, like maybe Desmond asked for another helping of dessert at dinner or something. "But I would like you to watch."

"Oh God," Desmond moans as Ezio leans down again and if he thought Ezio was all business about it before, he was wrong. Ezio was just having fun. Desmond gives an involuntary buck up, and Ezio lets him, and the head of Desmond's cock slides past where that non-existent gag reflex should be and Ezio's mouth is sealed tight around the rest of his length and the moist heat of his breath is pooling in Desmond's pubes. And then he slides off a little and Desmond swears, because the sight of Ezio's lips stretched and shining around him as he does is almost as incredible as the feeling.

And then those lips are sliding back down again, and this time, one of Ezio's fingers is pressing at Desmond's hole, pushing in as Desmond's cockhead hits the back of Ezio's throat again and keeps going and Desmond wants nothing more than to spread himself, let Ezio fuck him right now however he wants, except he can't move, can only buck up again into the wet tight heat of Ezio's mouth and throat. His hips roll back on the slide out and he can feel himself give around Ezio's finger and Ezio makes a deep satisfied noise around him and then he's going back down and his finger is pressing in against Desmond's prostate and that's it for Desmond. He jerks, gasping for air that's nowhere near his lungs, and then everything is gone in a shaking rush of pleasure.

Dazed doesn't even begin to cover it. He can only lie there, limp and heavy, twitching while Ezio licks him clean and when the guy's face comes into view, he's grinning like that was the most fun he's had all day.

"Holy fucking wow," Desmond breathes, and Ezio's grin, if possible, gets even wider.

"My knees are a little worse for the wear," Ezio says, although he doesn't seem all that put out about it. "But I would have to agree."

"You totally better have rubbers around here somewhere," Desmond tells him dumbly, his tongue clumsy. "Or we're going to my place."

"If you would reach into the pocket behind the driver's seat," Ezio instructs and Desmond can't believe he expects him to move after that, except he is moving and while he's digging as instructed, Ezio is tugging his jeans off and shifting him so he can slide into the seat underneath him. His hands are sliding up and down Desmond's legs while Desmond finds the bag he guesses Ezio was referring to and finally hauls himself up into Ezio's lap. Ezio's hands move to Desmond's warm, bare sides, and he leans up and nuzzles at Desmond's throat, settling him more comfortably while Desmond opens the bag and fetches out a condom and a little tube of Vaseline – probably for chapped lips but hey, better than no lube, in Desmond's experience.

"This is going to ruin your suit, you know," Desmond points out, hitching back a little and tossing the bag on the seat beside them before reaching for Ezio's fly.

"Believe me," Ezio says with a rough grin and restless hands. "At this moment, I do not care so much about the suit."

Desmond grins back, but he's a little busy getting Ezio's hard-on out of his pants and – Oh, yeah, that's a bit more like it.

"Yeah, you've probably got a dozen just like it, right," he ribs, and hands Ezio the Vaseline. "Make yourself useful again. It's been a while."

Ezio takes the tube from him and then it's all Desmond can do to get the condom on Ezio's cock.

"Okay, all right, fuck," Desmond pants when he can't stand any more of Ezio's slick fingers and his drugging kisses and Jesus, he can't be getting hard again so soon, can he?

"Come," Ezio murmurs but it was pretty obvious what he wanted as soon as Ezio got in the back seat. Desmond shifts himself forward and up, bracing himself on the head-rest behind Ezio's head and lets Ezio get them lined up before he starts to work his way down. He can feel the blunt pressure of Ezio's cock as it starts to breach him and he knows he's as relaxed and ready as he's ever been, and he thinks maybe after that blow job he's got a little something to prove, so he shifts again, angling his hips, and drops right into Ezio's lap with a grunt.

It's gratifying, the way Ezio shudders underneath him, the grip of his hands a little too hard for a moment and his eyes closed, mouth hanging open like he's only just holding on. Desmond tries not to move too much as he leans down and laps at Ezio's slack mouth for a while, until Ezio's breathing finally starts again.

"Ah," Ezio says and opens his eyes, and his expression has gone soft and heavy. "Desmond."

"Christ," Desmond mutters, and leans down to kiss him again, because no one's ever looked at him quite like that before and he's suddenly wondering if anyone ever will again. "Come on, damn it. Move."

"No," Ezio murmurs, looking up into his face. "No, I want you to move. Do it slowly. I want to watch you."

"Jesus," Desmond says again, but there's no question he won't, and it's not normally how Desmond gets to do this so it's not like he's not getting something out of it. In fact, if the first slow roll of his hips is anything to go by, he's going to be getting quite a bit out of it. His thigh muscles jump and tremble at the effort but holy hell, it's worth it. By the second, he's fully hard again, but Ezio doesn't touch him, just keeps his hands lightly on Desmond's waist and sits back, still for all intents and purposes fully clothed, staring up at him with dark eyes and a half smile.

"Yes," he breathes. "That is beautiful. You are beautiful. Take it a little deeper."

Desmond whimpers, and lets himself down further on the next slide.

"You are lovely," Ezio murmurs. "I did not think you would be so lovely. Come. More. Desmond."

Desmond breathes out shakily and then gasps as Ezio rolls his hips with Desmond's on the next thrust, and then the next, and the next. Suddenly he's struggling for breath again, clutching him and panting into his mouth as Ezio kisses him over and over.

"Desmond," Ezio breathes again. "You make me want things I shouldn't. It is a terrible shame."

For a moment, Desmond doesn't even register Ezio's talking.

"What?" he blinks. "Shame?"

Ezio kisses him again, his tongue slick, hungry in Desmond's mouth, before he releases him again.

"You should have listened to your instincts. Don't make this same mistake again. Yes? For me?"

"What?" Desmond says again, but something's... something's wrong. "What are you..."

There's a sudden sharp pain in the side of his neck, and he blinks down at Ezio's still warmly smiling face.

And suddenly he knows.

"Ah ah," Ezio chides, as Desmond struggles, but it's not much of a fight. Whatever it is, it's already making itself known in his system. Suddenly his limbs are full of lead, clumsy. His hands won't close. Ezio holds him with what seems like casual effort.

"I am sorry," Ezio says, his voice coming down a long, empty tunnel. "Though you will not believe me. But I am. I did not expect... Well, it does not matter. Soon I will call them, and they will come. But this part of you is mine, Desmond." He leans up to steal a kiss, but Desmond can't feel it anymore. His mouth is dry, numb. He can feel all his nerve ends starting to turn off.

"No," he manages, or thinks he does. Perhaps Ezio only assumes, for he smiles again, soothingly, and Desmond can see his hand reaching to touch the side of his face, but he can't feel that either.

"Shh. It is alright," Ezio soothes. "After I have finished, I will make you presentable. They won't know. You will not see me again. When you wake up...Well, I do not think you will think on me kindly, but I did not lie. I do not usually seduce pretty young men five minutes after I meet them. Not even for the Templars."

The car's interior starts to swim, and Desmond tries to hold on, clutching at Ezio, even though he's betrayed him, even though he's...

The light around him drops down into darkness.


End file.
